Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“From whom? Not me—we are allies. Hiro will not be here, or Sanjiro. You could journey to Choshu if you wished. Basuhiro could be trusted to hold your position here.”
“No vassal could be trusted that much,” Ogama said sourly. “What about the shishi?”
“Basuhiro and my Akeda will continue to crush them—our Bakufu spies will continue to seek them out.”
Ogama scowled. “The more I think about this the less I like it. Too many dangers, Yoshi-dono. Fujitaka is sure to tell me your invitation was not delivered either.”
“You will be surprised; I suggest you can say my excuse about an illness must be a cover and that I must be rushing to Yedo to see what I can do to prevent the gai-jin from putting their threat to come to Kyōto into effect—and to ensure they quit Yokohama.” His face hardened. “They will not.”
Ogama said roughly, “Then we will make them.”
“In due time, Ogama-dono.” Yoshi became even harder. “Everything I forecast has happened. Believe me, the gai-jin will not be forced out. Not yet.”
“Then when?”
“Soon. This problem must be left for the moment. First of importance is to protect ourselves. Two requests: We must leave together and return together. We stay secret allies until formally, person to person and alone, we decide otherwise.” Ogama laughed but said nothing. “Last, while I am gone, our agreement over the Gates stays in place.”
“Your mind jumps around like a cat with thorns in its pads.” Ogama cleared his throat and shifted his knees more comfortably. “Perhaps I agree, perhaps not. This is too important to decide at once. I must talk with Basuhiro.”
“No. Talk to me. I can give better advice because I know more and, importantly, in this your interests are mine—and I am not a vassal who has to seek petty favors.”
“Only big ones. Like the Gates.”
Yoshi laughed. “That is a little one compared to some you will grant me, and I will grant you, when you’re tairō.”
“Then give me one now while I’m not: Sanjiro’s head.”
Yoshi looked at him, hiding his surprise. He had not forgotten what Inejin, his innkeeper spy on the road to Dragon’s Tooth, had told him about Ogama and “Crimson Sky.” Inejin spoke of how, with Sanjiro in support, or neutral, Ogama would prevail against the Shōgunate with the historic tactic so favored by daimyos, a sneak attack.
“Would you settle for his balls?” Yoshi asked, and laid out the plan he had been refining for months.
Ogama began to laugh.
The column of guards that had been relieved trudged homewards, four men abreast, Yoshi still disguised as a foot soldier amongst them. Although they had been warned in advance to treat him as such, they were finding it difficult not to sneak a glance, or apologize when coming too close. One of the soldiers was a shishi informer named Wataki. He had had no opportunity to warn of this unique opportunity for an ambush.
Yoshi was tired but content. At length Ogama had agreed to everything so now he could leave Kyōto with the Gates safe in Shōgunate hands and the Shōgunate safe.
For a time—enough time, he thought. My gamble is great, and my scheme filled with holes that will worry Ogama if he sees them. It does not matter, surely he plans to betray me anyway. Never mind, it was the best I could do, and should be workable. Impossible for me to accept the invitation.
The day had improved now, the sun jousting with clouds for possession of the sky. He hardly noticed it or his surroundings, his mind occupied with all the details of his departure, who to tell, what to do about Koiko and General Akeda, who to take with him, and his overall concern: would he be in time to minimize the damage in Yedo?
First a bath and massage, decisions afterwards …
His eyes focused and he became aware of the streets as they marched along, the pedestrians, stalls and ponies and kagas and palanquins, the houses and hovels and stalls and children and fish sellers and hawkers and soothsayers and scribes and all the bustle of the markets. It was a completely new experience for him to be one of many, incognito in the column, and he began to enjoy this completely different perspective. Soon he was gawking like a country person at the sights and sounds and smells of the city he had never seen before, wanting to stop, to intermingle with the crowds, to experience them, what they thought and did and ate and where they slept. “Soldier,” he whispered to the young man beside him. “Where do you go when you’re off duty?”
“M-me, Lord?” the man stuttered, and almost dropped his spear, appalled at being talked to by the Most High, wanting to kneel at once. “Me, I … go and drink, Sire …”
“Don’t call me ‘Sire,’” Yoshi hissed, startled by the sudden confusion his question had caused in all those nearby, some of whom missed their footing and almost broke ranks. “Act normally—do not look at me! All of you!”
The soldier offered apologies, and those nearby tried to do what he had ordered, finding it almost impossible now that their Lord Yoshi had broken the spell of invisibility. The Sergeant glanced around and came back anxiously. “Everything all right, Lord? Is ev—”
“Yes, yes, Sergeant. Return to your post!”
Automatically the Sergeant bowed and obeyed, the soldiers picked up their step and continued onwards—their barracks a hundred metres ahead. To Yoshi’s relief this minor confusion went unnoticed by the crowd alongside who had been bowing as the column passed.
But it had been noticed by two men further down the street. They were the shishi lookout, Ruru, and his replacement, Rushan, a young Tosa ronin, who had that moment arrived at the street stall not far from the Toranaga gateway. “Am I drunk, Rushan? A sergeant bowing to a foot soldier. A sergeant?”
“I saw it too, Izuru,” the other whispered. “Look at the soldier. There, you can see him now, the tall one near the back, look how he carries his spear. He is not used to it.”
“Right, but … What is it about him, eh?”
“See how the others watch him without watching!”
With growing excitement they scrutinized the soldier intently as the column approached. Though the soldier’s weapons were the same and uniform and everything the same, there was no mistaking a major difference: in carriage, step, the physical qualities of the man, however much he pretended to slouch.
“Lord Yoshi,” both men said simultaneously, and Rushan added at once, “He’s mine.”
“No, mine,” Izuru said.
“I saw him first!” Rushan whispered, committed, so impatient he could hardly talk.
“Both of us, together we have a better chance.”
“No, keep your voice down. One man one time, that was Katsumata’s order and we agreed. He is mine. Signal me when!” Heart pumping, Rushan eased through the pedestrians and other customers to a better attack position. They bowed politely, taking him for one of the many, ordinary, low-rank samurai off duty from one of the ceremonial garrisons and gave him no more attention, preparing to bow to the approaching column.
Rushan’s new position was on the edge of the roadway. A last look to place his quarry. Then he sat on a stool with his back towards the column, eyes on his friend Izuru, completely at peace. His death poem for his parents was in the hands of his village shoya, given years ago when he and ten other student samurai had rebelled. They were all goshi and had rebelled when they were refused entrance to the school for higher education—their parents could not afford the necessary bribes to local officials. They had killed the officials, declared themselves ronin and for sonno-joi, and fled.
Of the ten, he alone was still alive. Soon to die, he thought gloriously, knowing he was prepared, trained, at the height of his power and that Izuru would be his witness.
Izuru was just as ardent. He had already decided on his own attack plan if Rushan failed. Confidently, he moved into a better spot. His gaze left the patrol and went to the gateway. Guards were preparing for the ritual of checking the others back through the barricade. At once he noticed there was more bustling, and barking orders than us
He cursed to himself. They know! Of course they know and have known since the column left! That explains why they have been so jittery and irritable all morning. They all knew Lord Yoshi was loose outside and in disguise. But why? And where’s he been? Ogama! But why? Were they planning another ambush on us? Are we betrayed again?
All the time his eyes darted back and forth, never forgetting Rushan, gauging distances and timing. Already many pedestrians and shoppers close by were bowing. Any moment the officer would halt the column, the officer of the gate would come to meet him, both would bow, together they would inspect the incoming men and then they would all march away.
The officer held up his hand. The column shuffled to a halt. “Now,” Izuru said almost audibly, and gestured. Rushan saw the signal and dashed for the tail of the column twenty metres away, his long sword poised in a two-handed grip.
He burst through the first two men, sending them sprawling before they or any of the soldiers realized they were being attacked, and hacked at Yoshi who stared at him blankly for a split second. Only Yoshi’s honed instinct made him lurch towards the death blow, diverting it into a stupefied soldier beside him who screamed and went down.
Shrieking “sonno-joi” in the sudden shouting melee around him, Rushan jerked the blade out as soldiers fought for space, shoving each other out of the way, other guards rushing from the gateway, bystanders everywhere gaping and paralyzed, Wataki, the shishi informer, as surprised as any of the soldiers, and terrified he would become involved or betrayed by this shishi he recognized who had appeared out of nowhere.
Wataki saw Rushan strike again and held his breath. But Yoshi had recovered his balance though had no time yet to draw his sword so he used the haft of his spear against the blow. Rushan’s sword sliced through it easily but the blade twisted and slowed slightly, giving Yoshi just enough time to lunge and grab the sword hilt left-handed.
At once Rushan’s right hand flashed to his short sword, ripped it out and stabbed for the belly, a classic gambit in hand-to-hand fighting. Again Yoshi was prepared. He had let the spear fall and jammed his right forearm against Rushan’s wrist to deflect the blade into his cloak to entangle it. Instantly Rushan let go and his hand, now a murderous weapon with fingers like rock-hard talons, and nails like claws, stabbed for Yoshi’s eyes. The nails missed the eyes but sank in below them.
Yoshi gasped. A lesser trained man would have released his grip on his assailant’s long sword hilt and would have died. Blindly he hung on, now with two hands, to the man who flayed impotently, out of control now. This gave a soldier behind Rushan the opening to grab him around the throat, and Wataki, knowing the fight was lost and petrified the shishi would be captured alive, thankfully drove his short sword into Rushan’s lower back. The strength of the blow thrust the blade right through him. Rushan cried out. Blood seeped from his mouth, but he fought on, though blind with death as his life soared upwards and outwards and ended. Barely a minute had passed since the first attack.
Though his own glands generated panic, Yoshi felt the life go out of the man. And the sudden weight of the body against him. But he did not let go until he was completely sure the man was truly dead. Even then he allowed other hands to pull the corpse away and let it fall.
Blood covered him. He discovered quickly that it was not his. His good fortune did not dissipate his fury at the men nearby who had failed to be alert, failed to move into a protective screen, leaving him to do the fighting. He cursed them, ordering the whole troop inside, on their knees, their swords broken, except the two who had helped him. Then, panting, he looked around. The busy street was almost empty.
When the shouting, milling skirmish surrounding the lone attacker was seen to be what it was, and in seconds Yoshi’s hat torn off and he was recognized, a hum of astonishment had gone through the common folk. At once, two or three sidled away, heads averted. Others followed. The cautious dribble became a floodtide, no one wanting to be held as a witness or even accused of being an accomplice.
Izuru was one of the first to leave when he saw there was no reasonable expectation a second attack would succeed. Rushan mishandled the attack, he thought, walking down the predetermined side street, well shielded by departing crowds. The fool should have hacked the head off one of the first two as a diversion, then on the recovery used the same fluid, brutal force to swing back on the prime target, waist-high. No likelihood of Yoshi escaping that blow. None. Katsumata would be furious. He demonstrated it enough times, told us enough times. A unique opportunity wasted! And as for allowing Yoshi to catch his hilt and parry the belly thrust …
Rushan deserved to be captured alive and used for sword practice! Wait, perhaps it was better this way. If Rushan was so inept in his supreme duel, he probably would have broken and given away our safe houses, the ones he knew about. You can’t trust Tosa people, shishi or not!
But why was Toranaga Yoshi taking such a risk?
There were shouts behind him. Soldiers were chasing the last of the crowds to catch some as witnesses. No chance that he would be caught, no need to hurry.
Rain began again. The wind picked up. He pulled his cloak around him, glad for it and his hat. Down another puddled alley, into another, across a bridge, the wooden slats slippery. Soon he was safe in a maze of slippery little streets that led to a back entrance in the wall of a great dwelling. The guard recognized him, let him pass, waving him toward the secret shishi safe house lost in the vast gardens. The man’s uniform carried the insignia of Lord Chancellor Wakura.
In the street of the Toranaga Headquarters the stall keeper was being hustled to the guard house, loudly protesting that he knew nothing, was nothing and begged to be allowed to go—he had dared not vanish with the others as he was too well known there. A few stragglers who had been caught were shoved after him. The awning of the stall flapped miserably in the wind and rain.
Koiko was putting the final touches to her makeup, helped by a hand mirror of polished steel. Her fingers shook slightly. Again she made a conscious effort to empty her mind and compartmentalize her fears, for Yoshi and because of him, for herself and because of herself. The other two women, Teko, her maiko—apprentice—and Sumomo watched intently. The room was small and functional, like the rest of the suite adjoining Yoshi’s quarters, sufficient for her when she slept alone, and one maid. Other quarters, for her attendants, were farther away.
As she finished she stared at her reflection. She could detect no worry lines and when she tried a smile the skin of her face crinkled only in the correct places, her eyes were white where they should be white, dark where they should be dark and showed none of the depth of her concern. This pleased her. Then she caught a glimpse of Sumomo. Not aware she was observed, Sumomo’s face was momentarily open. Koiko’s stomach twisted, seeing so many conflicts there.
Training training training, she thought, what would we do without it, and turned to face them. Teko, little more than a child, took the mirror without being asked, deftly touched a vagrant lock into place with a tiny hand.
“It’s beautiful, Lady Koiko,” Sumomo said, bewitched. This was the first time she had been allowed into Koiko’s private quarters. The secrets of the beauty process had been a revelation, beyond her whole experience.
“Yes, it is,” Koiko said, thinking she meant the mirror, the perfection of its surface making it almost priceless. “And it is a kind mirror too. Few are kind, Sumomo—vital in this life for a woman to have a kind mirror to look into.”
“Oh, I meant the whole picture you make, not that,” Sumomo said, embarrassed. “From your kimono to your hairstyle, your choice of colors and how you make up your lips and eyebrows, everything. Thank you for allowing me to witness it.”
Koiko laughed. “I hope that with or without, the effect is not too different!”
“Oh, you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” Sumomo burst out. Compared to Koiko she felt like a country person, unsophisticated, inept,
With the sincerity Koiko saw the unhappiness and envy that could not be hidden. “You are beautiful too, Sumomo,” she said, long aware she had this effect on many women. “Teko-chan, you may go now but prepare everything for later … and make sure we are not disturbed, Sumomo and I.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Teko was almost fifteen. As with Koiko, her contract had been concluded with the mama-san of the House of Wisteria by her farmer parents when she was seven. Her earning life would begin when she was fourteen or fifteen. Till then, and as long as the mama-san wanted, the contract made the mama-san responsible for keeping her, clothing her, and training her for a life in the Floating World, and, if she developed the aptitude, in its various arts: as musician or dancer or poet or conversationalist, or all of them. If the maiko proved untrainable or difficult, the mama-san could resell the contract at her whim, but if her choice had been wise, as with Koiko, the mama-san’s considerable financial outlay and gamble would be repaid abundantly in money and reputation. Not all mama-sans were considerate, or kind, or patient.
“Run along now and practice your scales,” Koiko said.
“Yes, Mistress.” Teko knew she had been blessed to be apprenticed to Koiko whom she adored and worked very hard to please. She bowed perfectly and, adorned by an irrepressible charm, went away.